Lost Past
by KaileyF0x
Summary: A short-and-sweet story about Clive and his past (re-uploaded after editing because this website's formats are rather bizarre)


Midnight. What an unusual time for him to be stood in the research facility. The scientists had departed earlier that evening leaving him alone with this machine glimmering enticingly in the spotlight of a single fluorescent bulb above, and this fiery determination that urged him dangerously onward. But even as willing as the young man, Clive, was, logic and fear began to whisper their way into his mind, causing his resolve to flicker. Should he go through with this? he questioned for the first time since his feet had carried him here almost subconsciously. Was it really worth all this trouble...? The soles of his shoes echoed in the spacious facility, breaking the dead silence for but a moment as he turned his back on the machine and clasped his hands behind him. His light-bleached face was now cast in shadow as he watched the floor sombrely, thinking back to how he had used his judgement-or, he supposed, lack thereof-to arrive here at this hour with such desperate intentions.

Spring had just begun to settle on London. A small portion of the cold, bleak snow was melting in the warmer weather but most of it was washed away as an even bleaker grey-clouded sky showered rain at random throughout each day. Though bland as the drizzle was, it acted as water to a canvas, painting the capital city in a vibrant array of colours the greens of the fresh grass and budding leaves, oranges and yellows of the blooming poppies, purples and pinks of the flowering lilacs, reds and blues of the returning songbirds and their nests of eggs. New life was sprouting up all over again.

 _How ironic..._

Clive was stood outside in one of these spontaneous dreary rainfalls, his cobalt suit jacket soaked through to his ashen skin, his back and shoulders slumped as though the weight of the world was borne upon them. He was as still as the gravestones he watched, his dark-ringed eyes, shadowed by his drenched russet hair, nearly as lifeless as the corpses buried beneath his feet. The only lives not returning this spring were those he had so dearly loved.

Clive tilted his face toward the sky, his lips parted in a quivering frown, rain pelting his cheeks and mingling with his tears. He clasped his arms loosely around his slight, soaked figure, taking on an even thinner appearance which reflected his desire to disappear. They had died-been killed, rather-quite a while ago, but even after all this time, they were still on his mind. Memories of them visited his thoughts during the day and their flaming bodies haunted his dreams at night. If only the rains could revive them as it revived the flora and fauna each year. If only his tears, laden with regrets and pleas, could seep into the ground and act as an elixir of life.

But they could not resurrect them. Nothing could.

A sudden vision flashed through Clive s mind of a man clad in a black suit and top hat.

 _"Get a hold of yourself, boy! Run back in there and you'll die, too!"_

He drew in a shaking breath through his teeth and exhaled a heavy sigh.

 _What would the Professor do...?_

This man in the top hat, the Professor, he had met when he was a child, though, Clive supposed, 'met' wasn't quite right. Rather, 'ran into' fit the situation a bit better. After all, it had been an emergency, one of the most disastrous, chaotic tragedies to blight London since the Great Fire. It would plague him forever, but the Professor he doubted such a crisis affected that calm and collected man at all. He always seemed calculated and level-headed, most notably when he had withheld a young and frantic Clive from charging into the burning flat to rescue those he could never save. He had slapped-literally-some much needed sense into him, exposing him to the truth.

So what would the Professor do in this situation? Clive repeated to himself, the gears beginning to turn in his mind as he transferred his energy from grieving to searching, his eyes now scouring the graveyard for answers.

The Professor would turn problems round...

He looked to a gravestone with a wet bouquet of roses set at its base.

...He would contemplate issues from a different angle...

His sights beheld a tall gravestone in the shape of a cross.

...Until he arrived at the solution...

Just then, Clive s gaze rested on a simple, flat headstone with an hourglass inscribed on its glistening granite face. He blinked.

Yes, that was it. The solution.

As he turned his attention to the graves before him once more, from the depths of his lifeless eyes glimmered a spark, like fire rekindling from dead ash. His tears nor any amount of mourning could bring them back. But perhaps _he_ could go back to _them_.

The wet graves and pitter-patter of rain soon melted away to the dry and quiet research facility as Clive fully returned from his thoughts. That same spark glimmered in his umber eyes.

Though, that's all it was. A spark, nothing more. And the voice of reason attempted to extinguish what was left of Clive's hope with a last sharp-tongued retort.

 _The Professor would seek the truth no matter what pain was uncovered in the process! And that's what inspired you to seek the truth! Oh, but what's this? You've turned your back on facts, on the_ justice _of the plans you've worked out for years to liberate this corrupt city!_

Clive closed his eyes, suddenly disappointed with himself. It was true, he should have been finalising these plans. London was in peril and only he could save it. Instead, he was embarking on something he hadn't planned at all, and that frightened him.

But, he thought, the echoing of his shoes once again momentarily breaking the silence as he turned to face the machine, to face his fears. He couldn't stop now. He had wondered to himself earlier if it was worth all this trouble, if he should really go through with this. Yes.

He reopened his eyes, the fire of stubborn persistence not only reigniting, but erupting into a brilliant blaze, burning away the last of his doubts. He had come this far. He should-no, _would-_ go through with it.

Stepping forward, coming face-to-face with the machine, Clive pressed a button to change the number displayed on a small keyboard to the side. He pushed three more buttons beside this one until the numbers were as he desired, then flipped a switch. A rumble piped up from the contraption's base, like the revving of an engine, escalating in volume until it was a rolling thunder that reverberated through his body, shaking his bones. The racket soon died away to mere noise and from this faded in a slow and deep _tick...tock...tick...tock_ which beat in time with his own heart, pressing him ever onward toward a possibility he'd been clinging to for so long. A possibility that, tonight, would become reality.

With a mechanical _whirring,_ four sections split from either side of the machine, one placing itself before Clive's feet as if encouraging him to enter. He obliged, his footfalls clinking on the metal as he stepped up the section. Once stationed within the machine he pressed a red button then turned and watched into the research facility as the sections rose. This he could only do once, he knew. If he stayed too long or changed anything there would be repercussions. But there was no need to worry. His eyes shifted to the side. He'd only be gone a short while. After all, this was so long, not farewell. Shadows began to engulf his body and he looked out past the nearly closed sections once more. He'd not forgotten his plans. He'd return soon enough to change the future.

The sections closed around Clive, swallowing him in pitch black.

First, however, it was pertinent he revisited the past.

The crammed machine hummed and whined, Clive's stomach flip-flopping as he was transported far away, but he was too focused on where he was headed to be ill. That flare of determination had now overtaken his whole body, setting his soul aflame with anticipation. He closed his eyes, his lips quivering with an involuntary smile as his yearning intensified.

 _I'll be there soon..._

Only a few moments had passed before the rickety journey was nearing its end. Clive's motion sickness began to settle, but the nervous butterflies that flittered around his stomach did not. In fact, they increased in number. He kept his eyes closed as he arrived at his destination, almost unable to contain his joy. It had worked...

Soon, Clive's ears were met with the _whirring_ of the sections opening and in front of his eyelids glimmered light that chased the darkness away. From the slowly dwindling metallic smell of the machine's inside wafted a familiar scent that tickled his nose. It was a mixture of aromas-a flowery perfume, a sharp cologne, the smell of a house-a home-that had been lived in for quite some time-and a blade of nostalgia began to wheedle its way into his chest. Finally, he opened his eyes and the blade found its mark: His heart.

There were the two chairs, one elegant, its back tall and curved, the other a simple blocky armchair. They still rested on either side of a couch, all stationed in front of the telly. The glass doors a few metres away led out onto the patio which still overlooked the brilliant London city with a direct view of the clock tower. On the cream-coloured carpeting sat a box of toys. A charming miniature car and three worn children's books were set at its base as if recently used.

Clive s brow furrowed.

"It s the same as back then...," the words escaped in a shaking whisper, "as if it had never changed..."

His feet began to carry him on impulse for the toy box but stopped when he spotted the frames on the wall. One picture was of a moustached man in an olive-green suit and a woman in a blue-and-white dress and bonnet. Another beside it was of the same couple, this time with a young boy between them, clad in an olive-green jacket and newsboy cap. Clive walked up to the picture, slipping his trembling fingers underneath. He caressed the oaken frame with his thumbs, his lips slightly parted, his gaze distant as he stared at the photo, entranced.

"...Could he have gone...?"

"...Haven't a clue..."

Distant voices began to whisper into Clive s concentration and with his hands still holding the frame he turned to look toward where they had come. His legs began to move of their own accord again and he noted somewhere in the back of his mind even the creaking of the floorboards was familiar as he walked along down the hall. With each step, the voices grew more audible until they were clear as he approached an archway that led into the kitchen. He sidled up next to the entrance, as timid as a child.

"He's not in the house anywhere?" questioned a man. Clive could recognise the soft yet deep voice, its firm tone trying-and failing-to mask underlying concern.

"I didn't see him..." replied a woman. Unlike the man's, the worry was obvious in her trembling voice. "Perhaps I should call Ms Dove...?"

 _This is it..._

His eyes wide with wonder, Clive stepped forward into the kitchen light. The man and woman turned to him and for a moment their expressions remained as they had while searching for their lost child-the man's grave, only his greying eyebrows betraying his true feelings toward the situation, the woman's infused with urgency. But upon seeing Clive, their eyes grew as wide as his.

"Clive...," they said at once, slowly nearing him as if they couldn't believe their eyes. Before he could react, they ran up and embraced him tightly, the man quickly stepping away again and patting him on the back while the woman hugged him ever tighter. She then gripped Clive by the shoulders and pushed him back.

"Young man, where have you been?!" she scolded, glowering at him through tears. Clive could do nothing but gape into her deep brown eyes, unable to speak a word.

"We've been worried sick, Clive!" the man put in. Once again, he kept his face unreadable, but the relief in his voice and words betrayed his expression. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "You shouldn't stay out so late, my boy. Come, sit down and join us for tea." He set a hand on Clive's back and gently led him to the dinner table.

Dazed, Clive let his feet follow after the two. They busied themselves elsewhere in the kitchen while he tentatively seated himself, almost afraid if he performed any action too fast or with too much force, he might awaken himself from what he could only assume was a heavenly dream. Surely, this couldn't be real... Sounds that he recognised but couldn't quite register at the moment caught his ear-hissing and bubbling, water running, the hard chopping of a blade... Suddenly, a slender hand hovered into view, setting a cup of Earl Grey before him. He blinked, a bit startled, and looked up to see the woman smiling at him.

"Rather thoughtful tonight, Clive," she commented in amusement as she seated herself at the table. The man was already seated.

Clive attempted to answer back, but found he couldn't. His chest was becoming tight. He sniffed. To distract himself from the sudden feelings welling up within him, he picked up the steaming cup in both hands and took a timid sip. As the hot liquid touched his tongue he gulped, swallowing back the lump that had begun to form in his throat. It wasn't a dream, it was real. He closed his eyes to hold back the tears, but he couldn't. _This_ was real...

The woman and man, who had been about to tuck in, looked to him as he sniffled, then exchanged a confused look with each other.

"Clive, dear," the woman said tentatively, gentle laughter playing in her tone, "we were the ones crying moments ago, but what ever is your reason? Have we startled you?"

A few hiccupping breaths escaped Clive and he held a hand to his mouth, attempting to collect himself.

"Forgive me," he whispered, "I don t mean to worry you..." As he brusquely wiped the tears from his eyes, he looked up at them and a trembling, foolish smile spread on his lips, "I'm just overjoyed to see you again...Mum and Dad."


End file.
